THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


7 


THE 


BEECHEN    TREE. 


A  I  E  i 


TOLD    IN     RHYME. 


BY 

F.    W.    THOMAS, 

AUTHOR    OF    "  CLINTON    BRADSHAW,"    ETC. 


Spsre,  woodman,  spare  the  beechen  tree. — Campbell. 

I'll  carve  your  name  on  barks  of  trees, 

With  true-love  knots  and  flourishes. — Hudibras. 

The  course  of  true  love  never  did  run  smooth. — Shakspeare. 


NEW-YORK : 

PUBLISHED   BY   HARPER    AND    BROTHERS, 
82  CUFF-STREET. 

1844 


ENTERED,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1844,  by 

HARPER    &    BROTHERS, 
in  tha  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  Southern  District  of  New- York. 


fS 


CANTO  I, 


LOVE  IN  COUNTRY  AND  IN  TOWN. 


I. 

t 
'TWAS  on  the  outskirts  of  a  wood, 

A  wood  of  tall  and  aged  trees, 
That  gave  a  charm  to  solitude, 

A  murmur  to  the  breeze ; 
It  was  when  frequent  falls  the  leaf, 
And  we  begin  to  say  that  brief 

And  briefer  grows  the  day ; 
When  far  away  the  evening  sky 
Looks  sad  and  sober  to  the  eye ; 
When  darker  grows  the  rivulet, 

Where,  in  some  tiny  eddies'  play, 
The  fallen  leaves  so  fitful  fret, 
Like  hope,  when  we  would  hold  it  yet, 

And  it  would  fain  be  far  away. 


901472 


THE     BEECHEN     TREE. 
II. 

How  beautiful  the  beechen  tree  ! 

A  beechen  tree  of  giant  mould, 

Whose  roots  did  many  a  rock  enfold, 
Entwining  them,  as  you  might  see — 
For,  branching  from  the  parent  stem, 
A  velvet  moss  just  covered  them  : 
They  sought  the  nurture  of  the  brook, 
That  from  the  shade  a  deep  green  took, 

And  murmured  like  the  lullaby 
Of  cradle-watchers,  when  they  look 

Upon  the  infant's  closing  eye. 

III. 

Forth  stepping,  like  the  timid  deer, 
And  hearing  her  own  step  with  fear, 

On  came  a  gentle  maid ; 
She  crosses  o'er  the  rivulet — 
Her  silken  slipper  is  not  wet — 

Why  should  she  be  afraid  ? 
If  fearful  thus,  why  seek  the  spot  ? 
She  seems  spell-bound,  and  yet  seems  not 

Why  stops  she  by  the  tree  ? 
We  have  volition  where  to  go, 
And  we  may  wander  to  and  fro, 


THE     BEECH  ENTREE.  I 

Yet  we  may  not  be  free ! 
For  Love,  though  all  unseen  his  chain, 
Will  draw  us  over  land  and  main ; 
And  though  we  meet  as  far  between, 
As  winter  wild  from  summer  green, 
Yet  love,  like  heaven,  will  be  above 
The  hearts  that  truly  vow  to  love. 

IV. 

With  step  e'en  as  the  maiden's  light, 

But  not  a  step  that  e'er  knew  fright, 

And  followed  by  his  faithful  hound, 

That  marks  his  mood,  and  snuffs  the  ground, 

Comes  one  with  love-lit  look; 
He  clasps  her  with  his  arms  around, 
As  is  yon  water-lily  bound 

By  the  encircling  brook  : 
And,  as  it  palely  droops  to  hear 

The  music  of  the  whispering  water, 
She  listens  with  a  charmed  fear, 

Bound  by  the  spell  which  there  has  brought  her ; 
The  while  her  fair  brow  bends  and  beams, 
Like  that  pale  flower  that  loves  the  streams. 
How  to  his  heart  he  holds  the  flower  ! 
"  O !  ever  blessed  be  the  hour 


THE     BEECH  EN     TREE. 

That  brings  thee,  Helen,  to  my  side ; 
Our  friends  would  frown  I  know,  my  bird, 
If  but  our  slightest  words  were  heard — 

But  oh !  thou  yet  wilt  be  my  bride : 
For  though  we  meet  here  but  to  part, 
'Tis  not  with  a  divided  heart. 
Thou  wert  the  soonest  here  to-day, 
But  no  neglect  kept  me  away  ; 
I  know  this  hour — the  rest,  to  me, 
Are  but  this  short  hour's  memory." 

V. 

"  I  came  the  sooner,  love,"  said  she, 
With  maidenly  simplicity, 
"  Because,  before  the  sun  goes  down, 
Stern  darkness  in  the  woods  will  frown ; 
And  though  I  reach  my  home,  while  yet 

The  red  clouds  linger  in  the  west, 
Methinks  dark  forms  the  woods  beset : 

They  trouble  me  with  sad  unrest. 
How,  yester-eve,  the  big  trees  moaned, 
Methought  for  me  they  sighed  and  groaned ; 
The  screech-owl  screeched  above  my  path — 
It  seemed  to  haunt  me  with  its  wrath ; 
And  all  the  gentle  birds  have  flown — 
The  loneliness  is  all  my  own." 


THE     BEECHEN     TREE. 
VI. 

"  Love,  this  is  autumn  now,  you  know, 
To  other  lands  the  wild  birds  go : 
They  only  rest  in  summer  bower, 
And  only  stay  while  blooms  the  flower ; 
But,  Helen,  not  thus  let  it  be 

With  all  this  love  that  binds  us  now. 
In  winter,  bare  will  be  the  tree, 

No  bird  will  sing  upon  the  bough — 
But  see  where  I  have  taught  the  beech, 

If  either  here  should  rove  alone, 

Long  after  this  blest  hour  is  flown, 
The  vows  of  both  to  tell  to  each. 
Our  names  I've  circled  with  a  heart — 

As  thus  I  hold  thee  to  mine  own — 
And  thus,  though  we  afar  may  part, 
As  ever  yet  did  fond  ones  sever, 

The  love  that  binds  us  holds  forever." 

VII. 

This  beech  tree  was  their  tryeting  place  : 
There,  oft  in  summer's  fragrant  eve, 
Just  when  the  red  sun  took  his  leave, 
When  the  coy  moon,  with  half  hid  face, 
Peep'd  o'er  the  eastern  hills  afar, 
With  here  and  there  a  radiant  star, 


THE     BEECH  EN     TREE. 

When  twilight  came  with  sober  mien, 
And  silence  brooded  o'er  the  scene, 
Thither  the  maid  would  often  stray, 
Humming,  may  be,  a  laughing  lay, 
That  told  true-love  was  all  untrue, 
And  made  of  nothing  great  ado. 
SheV  have  them  think,  if  she  were  heard, 

Slie  scorned  the  very  love  she  sought, 
And  that  she  sung  like  careless  bird, 

A  maiden  who  was  free  in  thought, — 
Who  roamed,  and  roaming,  trolled  a  glee, 
Because  she  wanted  company. 

VIII. 

Upon  this  eve  they  met  to  part, 

Till  spring  again  should  clothe  the  vine ; 

They  pledged  their  faith  with  beating  heart, 
And  made  the  beechen  tree  their  shrine. 

He  watched  her  white  dress,  glimmering  bright 

Through  the  dark  woods — "Good  night" — "Good 
night." 

IX. 

Change  we  the  scene :  'tis  winter  now ; 
The  birds  forsake  the  withered  bough, 


THE     BEECH  EN     TREE. 

And  beauty  seeks  the  city. 
How  the  dear  belles  the  shops  explore  ! 
The  cards  are  out  a  week  or  more — 

It  snows  so !  what  a  pity  ! 
That  rivulet,  we  rhymed  about, 

Is  frozen  o'er  :  Alas,  I  wonder 

If  water  flows  that  hard  ice  under  ! 
That  whimpering  hound !    behold  his  track, 
Into  the  moss  he  thrusts  his  snout — 
'Gainst  beechen  tree  he  rubs  his  back. 

Why  is  he  there  an  earnest  rover  ? 

Seeks  he  our  lady-love  and  lover? 

X. 

The  night  is  o'er  them,  but  the  lamps 
Throw  forth  a  gladness  on  the  night — 
With  others,  beautiful  and  bright, 

Despising  colds  and  coughs  and  cramps, 

They  press* to  Mrs.  Jones's  rout. 

She's  lit  with  gas  her  great  big  hall — 

This  rout  will  rout  all  others  out, 
The  crowning  victory  of  all. 

XI. 

Our  hero,  Mr.  Joseph  King, 
Most  generally  called  Joe— 
1* 


10  THE     BEECHEN     TREE. 

Is  with  the  ton  the  very  thing — 

For  Josey  is  the  go. 
King  has  no  gift  of  dirty  dollars ; 

His  wealth  lies  in  poetic  mine, 

Which  in  gilt  page  may  some  day  shine. 
His  feeling,  fierce  or  funny,  chimes 
With  his  who  turned  more  heads  and  collars, 
Than  e'en  himself  has  written  rhymes. 
So  unfamiliar  was  his  eye 

With  Mammon's  face,  that  he  has  said, 
When  he  has  passed  a  corner  by, 
Whilst  boys  were  tossing  cents  on  high, 
Vain  were  his  efforts  to  descry, 
As  near  his  foot  the  metal  roll'd, 
Whether  'twas  copper,  brass,  or  gold, 

Or  which  fell  upwards,  tail  or  head  ! 
But  looking  much  like  Byron's  bust, 
And  winning  gentle  tailor's  trust, 
The  Peer's  with  Brummel's  arts  combined 
(At  least  he  thought  so  when  he  "  wined") 
In  him  to  strike  the  public  mind. 
His  eye  was  of  the  Byron  hue, 
Where  you  could  see  the  thought  shine  through ; 
And,  better  than  the  bard's,  his  feet 
Were  beautiful,  and  both  complete. 


THE     feEECHEN     TREE.  11 

XII. 

Our  heroine,  Miss  Merryvale, — 

Her  Christian  name  is  Helen — 
Rains  influence — as  thick  as  hail, — 

All  other  maids  excelling. 
Helen  and  King  were  friends  in  youth, 
"  But  whispering  tongues  can  poison  truth, 
And  constancy  dwells  in  realms  above" — 
So  Coleridge  sings  of  early  love  : 
And  once  it  dwelt  beside  the  beech — 
No  matter,  let  the  moral  teach. 

XIII. 

Miss  Merryvale  is  dress'd  with  taste — 

With  taste  she  always  dresses — 
A  zone  is  round  her  virgin  waist, 

And  bright  flowers  in  her  tresses. 
That  full-blown  fellow  in  her  curl 
Bobs  with  an  everlasting  twirl, 
As,  with  a  nod  like  Juno's,  she 
Nods  to  the  goodly  companie. 
Prouder  it  looks  than  when  on  high 
It  flaunted  at  a  flaming  sky ; 
For  now,  no  more  on  thorny  stem, 
It  graces  beauty's  diadem. 


12  THE      BEECHEN      TREE 

Her  neck  is  bare,  her  shoulders  too, 
And  with  the  cold  they  had  been  blue, 
But  for  the  flakes  of  mealy  hue — 

The  powder  of  the  pearl — 
Which,  like  the  frost  on  frozen  shore, 
Or  web  of  gossamer,  was  o'er 

The  fascinating  girl. 
Deepest  the  drift  in  hollow  places — 
Thus  maids,  forsaken  by  the  Graces, 
And  thin  with  hope  deferred, 
(I  only  tell  what  I  have  heard, 
So  little  of  the  sex  I've  seen 
I  hold  each  one  a  fairy  queen,) 
Appear  in  such  a  garb  of  flour, 
And  talk  with  such  continuous  power, 

And  try  to  look  so  dapper, 
That  one  might  swear  the  miller's  maid 
Had  come,  most  naturally  arrayed, 

And  borne  away  the  clapper. 

XIV. 

That  powder  is  a  great  transgression 

Against  the  rosy  cheek  ; 
It  buries  up  the  whole  expression, 

It  makes  the  eye  look  weak, 


THE     BEECH  ENTREE.  18 

Unnatural  the  tress, 
And  throws  upon  the  brow  a  blight, 
As  though  it  had  grown  gray  with  fright 

At  single  blessedness. 
Pray,  who  would  such  a  woman  toast, 

Unless  he  meant  to  drink  to  one 

Long,  long  since,  with  the  buried  gone, 
And  now  an  awful  ghost — 
Which,  like  all  ghosts  that  earthward  rove, 
Must  horrify  the  hues  of  love. 

XV. 

Behold  how  short  the  ladies'  dresses, 
How  curlless  too  they  wear  their  tresses ! 
This  does  not  prove  at  all  the  slattern, 
Or  love  for  modesty's  scant  pattern. 
No,  but  it  proves  that  innocence 
Will  never  make  to  shame  pretence, 
But  goes  about  like  naked  truth, 
To  show  its  guilelessness,  forsooth  ! 

XVI. 

No — while  I  write,  free  floats  the  curl, 
And  clothed  is  every  blushing  girl. 
God  bless  the  sex,  we  love  them  still, 
E'en  let  them  change,  as  change  they  will ; 


14  THEBEECHENTREE. 

There's  one  thing  certain,  that  their  hearts 
Are  yet  unmoved  by  fashion's  arts — 
That  still  they  throb  within  the  breast, 
And  guard  it  for  love's  chosen  rest. 

XVII. 

Our  Josey,  Joe,  or  Mr.  King, 

Is  dancing  with  the  widow  Lead ; 

He  cut  for  her  the  pigeon  wing, 
And  Helen  she  cut  Josey  dead ; 

But  Josey  knows  which  side  his  bread 

Is  buttered,  and  he  goes  ahead : 

Like  Hudibras  he  felt  expand 

His  heart  as  Cupid  took  his  stand — 

"  Upon  the  widow's  jointure  land."1 

O  widow !  blessed  widowhood ! 

Thou  goest  about  a  doing  good, 

Curest  the  wounds  of  maiden's  darts — 

Thou  good  Samaritan  of  hearts. 

« 
XVII. 

"Fat,  fair,  and" something, — Mrs.  Lead 

Has  often  been  admonish-ed, 
That  lovers  seek  her  pelf; 
But  she  avers  that  she  sees  through 
A  millstone,  ma'am,  as  well  as  you, 


THE     BEECHEN     TREE.  15 

• 

And  that  they  seek  herself. 
She  has  her  charms,  and  she  displays  'em, 
And  in  her  gaudiest  garb  arrays  'em, 

And  shall  they  not  be  sought? 
Do  not  the  best  beaux  crowd  beside  her, 
And  dare  they  come  there  to  deride  her, 

Or  are  they  ever  brought? 
And  pray,  I  ask  you,  flirting  miss, 
Is  there  not  something  more  in  this 

Than  you  have  ever  thought? 
Are  all  her  charms — her  eyebrow's  dye, 
The  rosiest  hue  that  wealth  can  buy, 
A  bust,  formed  for  capacious  sigh, 
In  nature's  prodigality, 

To  pass — and  all  for  nought? 
Whoever  knew  a  man  to  wed, 
And  merely  for  his  daily  bread? 

No — he  would  rather  beg  it. 
Ride  in  her  coach  and  eat  her  meat ! 
No — he  would  rather  never  eat, 

And  would  forever  leg  it ! 

XIX. 

And  Helen,  not  neglectful  she 
Of  her  proud  sex's  dignity — 


16  THEBEECHENTR.EE. 

* 

If,  in  the  mazes  of  the  dance, 
Perchance  she  met  her  loved  of  all, 

You'd  think  that  nothing  met  her  glance 
Between  her  and  the  wall, 
Her  eye  around  is  thrown  so  free, 
Her  laugh  rings  out  so  merrily. 
How  soon  a  slighted  woman  learns 

To  hide  that  pang,  however  deep ; 
Though  in  her  tortured  breast  it  burns, 

Her  bosom-thoughts  seem  all  asleep. 
You'd  think  that  peace  was  resting  there, 

With  her  light  shawl  upon  her  breast, 
That  exercise  and  healthy  air 
And  day-dreams  that  be  wondrous  fair, 
With  hopes  that  sweetest  fruitage  bear, 

Had  caused  the  slight  unrest. 
Oh  !  know  you  not  her  young  heart  bleeds, — 

That  in  this  laughing  mood 
The  Pelican  of  passion  feeds 

Her  ever  hungry  brood ! 
The  two  extremes  approach,  we  know, 
And,  therefore,  often  laughs  our  woe  : 
Thus  tells  that  laugh  that  rung  so  loud 
Of  withered  hopes  within  their  shroud. 


THE     BEECHEN     TREE.  17 

XX. 

The  blight  that  falls  on  love,  is  like 

The  lightnings  of  a  summer's  sky — 
Which,  when  the  weather's  warmest,  strike 

The  topmost  branches  hanging  high ; 
The  branches  where  the  wild  bird  builds, 
As  freest  there  from  earthly  ills, 
A  nestler  in  the  summer  air, 
With  folded  wing  and  wild  note  there — 
Merrily  singing  to  the  day 

That  throws  from  its  abounding  quiver, 
Blessings  in  the  living  ray, 

That  laughs  o'er  hill  and  dale  and  river. 
Merrily  thus  in  life's  gay  morn, 

Merrily  young  love  builds  his  bower, 
Forgetful  of  the  growing  thorn, 
Forgetful  that  the  storm  is  born 

In  the  warm  sunny  hour. 

XXI. 

But  Helen  is  a  girl  of  spirit ; 

She  did  the  noble  gift  inherit 

From  the  maternal  side. 

It  is  her  passion  and  her  pride 

To  keep  that  heir-loom  of  her  gender, — 

And  if  you  doubt  it,  just  offend  her. 


]S  THE     BEECHKN     TREE. 

But  let  me  tread  my  back  tracks  first, 
Before  the  shaken  vials  burst. 

XXII. 

A  bachelor,  whose  gouty  toe 
Admonished  him  he  must  forego 

The  tightness  of  the  pump, 
And  lean,  like  Lara,  'gainst  the  wall,2 
As  though  he  had,  above  them  all 
Who  gathered  to  the  crowded  ball, 

Of  self-esteem  the  bump, — 
Whose  weight  of  many  years  below, 
Were  traced  in  certain  marks  of  snow, 

Thick-coming  on  his  head — 
Such  as  so  oft,  in  winter  morn, 
We  see  upon  the  withered  thorn, 

Or  on  the  house-top  spread. 
This  bachelor,  John  Job  McMyer, 
Sometimes  called,  in  joke,  The  Friar, 
Because  he  had  the  sleeky  look 
Of  friars  in  the  picture-book — 
A  kind  of  prinky  prim  precision, 
Which  stiff-necked  men  would  call  decision, 

And  worldly  men  deceit — 
This  was  Helen's  gay  gallant. 
At  widow-wooing  Joe,  aslant 


THE     BEECHEN     TREE.  19 

He  looked,  and  played  with  Helen's  brooch ; 
And  thus  the  two  extremes  approach — 

And  they  at  last  may  meet, 
And  winter  on  his  breast  so  old, 
Lull  love  until  it  dies  of  cold. 

XXIII. 

On  crisped  snow,  'neath  starry  lights, 

The  revellers  for  home  depart : 
How  the  wind  cuts  the  dandies'  tights, 

And  penetrates  the  cloaked  up  heart ! 
That  Jack-frost  has  as  keen  a  power 
As  love  in  his  consummate  hour. 
The  age  of  chivalry  is  past ! 

What  lover  now  would  Raleigh  play — 
'Neath  woman's  foot  his  mantle  cast, 

That  she  might  take  her  earthless  way  ? 
Her  earthless  way  !  what,  spoil  his  cloak  ! 
Why  that  might  do  for  hearts  of  oak 

To  win  a  proud  queen's  heart ; 
For  winning  that  gives  power  and  pelf, 
But  here  each  dandy  cloaks  himself, 

And  plays  a  wiser  part. 
Not  only  will  he  not  downspread 
His  mantle  for  the  lady's  tread, 


20  THEBEECHENTREE. 

Her  pruhelled  foot  to  save — 
He'd  scarcely  fold  it  round  her  form, 
To  shield  her  from  the  driving  storm, 
(For  her  light  cloak  cannot  be  warm,) 

Tho'  she  herself  should  crave. 
A  hint  that  it  is  cold  won't  do, 
The  gentleman  is  quite  cold  too, 

And  hints  can  coldly  take — 
And  he  would  wonder,  with  a  grace, 
(When  next  with  friend  in  cozy  place,) 
How  any  woman  had  the  face 

Such  a  cool  hint  to  make. 

XXIV. 

How  oft  consumption,  arm  in  arm, 

Hastens  with  beauty  to  the  ball, — 
Gives  to  her  cheek  a  tint  to  charm, 

A  higher,  holier  hue,  to  all 
The  features  of  her  youthful  face — 
And  to  her  form  a  drooping  grace, 

Such  as  a  rainless  summer  gives 
To  flowers,  that  in  the  early  spring, 
First  won  the  bird  to  fold  its  wing, 

And  sing  the  merry  life  it  lives 


THE     BEECHEN     TREE.  21 

XXV. 

How  often,  when  the  ball  is  over, 
And  by  her  walks  her  wooing  lover, 

Gay  with  the  radiance  of  the  dance, 

And  with  the  life-long  high  romance, 
Indwelling  in  her  happy  eye; — 
How  oft  consumption  steals  the  sigh 
On  which  Love  reasons  whence  or  why 
With  a  self-pleasing  phantasy — 
Thinking  that  sigh  is  all  his  own, 
Yet  wondering  at  its  saddened  tone : 
More  anxious  still  to  wear  the  rose 
Whose  hectic  colour  comes  and  goes, 
Because  on  lonely  stem  it  blows ; 
And  so  her  sighs  are  all  for  him, 

Love  changes  not  with  changing  breath — 
And  such  are  like  the  martyr's  hymn, 

That  proves  the  sufferer  true  in  death. 

XXVI. 

The  widow  with  her  worshipper — 
He  gave  his  cloak  and  arm  to  her : 
Of  all  who  left  the  ball  that  night, 
He  showed  of  courtesy  the  most ; 


THE     BEECHEN     TREE. 

Throwing,  with  care,  his  lantern's  light, 
Like  light-house  o'er  a  troubled  coast, 
While  proudly  in  the  track  roll'd  she, 
Like  a  gold-freighted  argosy. 

XXVII. 

And  Josey  stepp'd  her  heart  beside, 
Like  little  boat  which  painter  strong 
(The  widow's  arm  was  stout,  not  long,) 
Holds  to  the  ship,  while  on  the  tide 
It  cometh  near  nor  parteth  wide, 
As  they  together  gayly  glide. 
How  close  he  wrapped  her  in  his  cloak — 
And  as  the  wind  upon  him  broke, 
And  wide  his  parted  coat-skirts  flew, 
(To  illustrate  the  scene  anew,) 
He  seemed  like  storm-worn  struck  seamew, 
Trying  to  breast  a  bitter  blast, 
And  perch  upon  a  frigate's  mast. 

XXVIII. 

And  Helen  coldly — (understand, 
With  a  cold  heart  as  well  as  hand,) 
And  with  a  consciousness  that  came 
Like  chill  upon  a  fevered  frame, 


THEBEECHENTREE.  23 

Placed  her  white  arm  in  gay  McMyer's. 
Fast  falls  the  snow  upon  her  brow, 

But  faster  falls  it  on  the  fires 
Volcanic  in  her  bosom  now. 
Alas  !  those  fires  it  cannot  tame — 
They  fiercer  burn  like  sprinkled  flame, 
Which,  when  it  feels  the  waters  first, 

Shrouds  luridly  in  black'ning  smoke, 
Through  which  a  flash  has  scarcely  burst, 

Till  out  again  the  whole  up-breaketh, 

Like  sleeping  giant  when  he  waketh — 
All  maddened  by  a  stroke. 

XXIX. 

Home — home,  she's  by  her  lonely  hearth  ; 

The  street  has  not  a  single  tread, — 
And  desolating  is  the  dearth 

That  seems  around  her  spread. 
How  sadly — O  !  how  sadly  steals, 

In  such  an  hour,  the  blighting  thought 
O'er  dreams  that  flattered  hope  reveals — 

As  if,  like  nursing  bird,  she  brought 

To  her  young  brood  the  food  they  sought, 
And  fluttered  off,  their  wings  to  try, 
But  not  to  leave  them,  lone,  to  die. 


24  THEBEECHENTREE. 

XXX. 

Joe  reached  his  room  and  stirred  his  fire, 

And  made  his  whiskey  punch  quite  strong, 
And  thought  awhile  on  gay  McMyer, 

And  thoughtful  hummed  a  song. 
He  fixed  his  eye  upon  the  grate, 

And,  castle-building,  formed  a  dwelling, 
In  which,  with  Mrs.  Lead,  elate 
He  lived  : — somehow,  in  spite  of  fate, 

There  stood  the  tearful  Helen — 
And  then,  with  feelings  truly  human, 
He  wrote  the  following  lines 

• 

ON   WOMAN  : 
How  beautiful  is  woman's  life, 

When  first  her  suppliant  woos  and  kneels, 
And  she  with  young  and  warm  hopes  rife, 

Believes  he  deeply  feels. 

Then  day  is  gladness,  and  the  night 
Looks  on  her  with  it,s  starry  eyes, 

As  though  it  gave  her  all  their  might 
Over  men's  destinies. 

Wrapp'd  watchers  of  the  skyey  gleam, 
Then  men  are  like  astronomers, 


THE     B  E  E  C  H  E  M     TREE.  25 

Who  gaze  and  gladden  at  the  beam 
Of  that  bright  eye  of  hers. 

And  if  a  frown  obscure  its  light, 

'Tis  like  a  cloud  to  star-struck  men, 
Through  the  long  watches  of  the  night ; — 

O !  for  that  beam  again ! 

How  heart-struck  that  astronomer, 
A  gazer  on  the  starry  zone, 

When  first  he  looked  in  vain  for  her— 
The  lovely  Pleiad  gone ! 

But  men  watch  not  the  stars  always, 

And  though  the  Pleiad  may  be  lost. 
Yet  still  there  are  a  thousand  rays 

From  the  surrounding  host. 

And  woman,  long  before  the  grave. 

Closes  above  her  dreamless  rest, 
May  be  man's  empress  and  his  slave, 

And  his  discarded  jest. 

Still  may  that  Pleiad  shine  afar — 

But  pleasure-led  o'er  summer  seas, 
Who  dwells  upon  a  single  star 

Amid  the  Pleiades  ? 

2 


26  THE     BEECHEN     TREE. 

Man  courts  the  constellations  bright 
That  beam  upon  his  bounding  bark, 

Nor  thinks  upon  the  left,  lone  light, 
Till  all  above  is  dark. 

Then,  when  he  knows  nor  land  nor  main, 
And  darkly  is  his  frail  bark  tost, 

He  courts  the  separate  star  in  vain, 
And  mourns  the  Pleiad  lost. 


CANTO  II. 


THE     CHALLE  NGE 


I. 

THE  flame  that  burst  from  mutual  hearts, 
That  skewered  were  by  cupid's  darts, 
Like  tender  quails  in  huxtering  marts — 
Flickers  that  flame  in  feeble  flashes, 
Like  that  from  wood  that's  nearly  ashes 

H. 

But  where  is  Joseph  King,  I  pray  1 
Say,  pours  he  blessings  on  the  day 

He  supplicated  Mrs.  Lead, 

With  eyes  upturned  and  arms  outspread, 
Or  when  he  wooed  Miss  Merryvale, 
Where  truthful  love  should  aye  prevail, 

Beneath  the  beechen  tree — 


28  THE     BEECH  ENTREE. 

Where  the  bright  sky  its  azure  hung, 

And  the  bird  its  sweet  notes  sung ; 

And  where  the  flower  its  fragrance  flung, 

And  merrily  hummed  the  bee ; 
Where  twined  above  the  juicy  vine 

About  the  aged  sycamore, 
Hoar  witness  of  the  days  lang  syne, 

Which  truant  school-boys  oft  explore, 

Hanging  the  lucid  waters  o'er, 
And  keeping  close  within  the  wood 
That  skirts  their  stolen  solitude  ? 
And  where  the  streamlet's  pebbly  bed 
Is  hidden  by  the  leaves  o'erhead, 

Like  beauty's  curtained  sleep — 
In  which  the  overhanging  sky, 

Where'er  the  stream  is  clear  and  deep, 
Appears  with  all  its  clouds  to  lie, 
As  if  it  hid  a  watching  -eye — 

A  guardianship  to  keep 
Upon  the  gentle  waves,  and  know 
What  little  fishes  did  below. 

HI. 

King  was  a  student  of  the  law, 

And  over  my  Lord  Coke  he  pored, 


THEBKECHENTREE.  29 

But  even  there  he  fancies  saw, 

For  the  dear  Muses  he  adored  ; 
And  when  a  glimpse  of  them  he  caught, 
Left  was  the  legal  mine  unwrought. 
He  and  Mr.  Job  McMyer 
Had  been  as  thick  as  flames  and  fire : 

They  boarded  in  a  house  together 
With  our  gay  widow,  Mrs.  Lead ; 

But  somehow,  lately,  murky  weather 
Between  the  two  had  spread. 

IV. 

'Twas  natural — for  Mr.  King 
Thought  clearly  it  was  not  the  thing 

In  Mr.  Job  McMyer, 
Placed  personally  as  they  were, 
So  soon  to  take  his  place  with  her, 

The  lady  of  his  lyre. 
For  although  Mr.  King  had  said 
He  meant  to  dance  with  Mrs.  Lead, 

Yet  Job  McMyer  knew, 
Or  ought  so  well  to  know  him, 

That  Helen  still  he  had  in  view, 
Should  the  gay  widow  throw  him. 


30  THE     BEECHEN     TREE. 

V. 

Now  in  his  gallant  rival's  sight, 
Young  King,  as  clearly,  had  no  right 

Such  notions  high  to  hold — 
Monopolizing  ladies  two — 
And  therefore  soon  between  them  grew 

A  manner  miffed  and  cold. 
By  fireside  often  and  by  table, 

Our  Joe,  to  show  his  depth  of  head, 
Would  talk,  as  he  thought,  darkly  able 

Of  law,  before  the  listening  Lead; 
Saying,  the  habits  must  be  stable 

Of  students  who  are  deeply  read — 
Hinting  how  many  hours  of  toil 
He  bowed  before  the  midnight  oil, 

VI. 

And  often,  with  the  stately  friar, 

Discoursed  he  on  commercial  law, 
And  when  insurances  expire, 

Citing  full  many  an  ancient  saw. 
As  deep  the  friar  held  himself 
As  any  book  on  Joe  King's  shelf, 

Of  how  such  matters  pass  : 
For  fearlessly  he  stood  on  'Change, 
A  leader  in  the  mammoth  range 

Of  the  commercial  class. 


THE     BEECHEN     TREE. 
VII. 

In  fact,  the  friar  would  sometimes  get 

Our  Joe  his  depth  beyond — 
"  As  little  wanton  boys  that  swim 

On  bladders"  in  a  pond, 
Soon  as  they  leave  the  water's  brim, 
Are  by  the  bigger  ones  thrust  in, 
Which  makes  their  Sunday  breeches  wet, 
And  puts  them  in  a  pouting  pet. 

VIII. 

Yet  truly  our  shrewd  friar  knew 
Nothing  of  law,  except  a  few 
Insurance  points,  which,  listening,  he 
Had  caught  in  court  and  company ; 
But  in  as-surance,  Job  was  strong 
As  Joe  in  words  and  flowing  song. 
And  King  would  sometimes  start  a  point, 

• 

And  friend  McMyer's  nose  disjoint : 
For  instance — Job  one  day  asserted, 

That  in  no  point,  nor  in  no  sense, 

Was  hearsay  heard  in  evidence. 
This  notion  Josey  controverted, 

Saying,  that — "  Declarations  made 
By  dying  man  'neath  mortal  blow, 


31 


THE     BEECHEN     TREE 

Could  be  with  all  their  force  arrayed 

'Gainst  his  indicted  foe." 1 
This  Job  with  much  contempt  denied, 

Averring,  to  a  case  like  that 
The  maxim  of  the  law  applied 

Plainly  and  palpably  and  pat. 

IX. 

But  our  young  poet,  by  the  judge, 
The  Honorable  Ely  Fudge, — 

To  whom  they  both  submitted, — 
Corrected  him  of  his  mistake, 
And  recommended  him  to  take 
Forthwith  to  books,  for  his  own  sake, 

As  he  was  to  be  pitied. 
Then  proud  McMyer  stately  grew 
At  once — and  with  no  more  ado, 

Joe  he  called  a  fool. 
(All  this  was  said  before  the  Lead,) 
King,  like  a  beet,  grew  bloody  red, 
And  straight  let  fly  at  Job's  proud  head 

A. fancy  music  stool. 
Quickly  McMyer  dodged — as  quick 
As  dips  a  duck,  when  shot-guns  click. 
"  Shame !  shame  !"  cried  out  the  widow,  "  shame." 
True  to  the  mark  was  King's  hot  aim — 


THE     BEECHEN     TREE.  33 

But  for  the  padding  in  the  seat, 
Job's  dying  declarations  might 
Have  been  sighed  in  sad  Lead's  sight, 

And  at  her  very  feet. 

X. 

Wrathy  to  raving  grew  the  friar — 

But  for  the  lady  and  the  judge 
Most  desperate  had  been  his  ire; 

Fudge  held  him  so  he  could  not  budge, 
While  she  caught  King  within  her  arms 
And  raised  the  house  with  her  alarms. 
Impulsively,  Job  felt  his  head, 
Then  bowed  profound  to  Mrs.  Lead, 

Then  frowned  with  ireful  gloom ; 
Then  cast  on  King  a  flashing  eye 
Of  ball  and  powder  prophesy, 

And  hurried  to  his  room — 
Where  anger  did  the  best  it  could 
To  screw  his  spunk  to  fighting  mood. 

XI. 

But  many  a  woman  has  seemed  stone, 

As  though  she  were  of  marble  made, 
Till  all  at  once  she  changed  her  tone 

By  moonlight  in  the  myrtle  shade ; 
2* 


34  THE     BEECHEN     TREE. 

And  many  a  beau  in  heated  hall 

Has  thought  he  could  young  Mary  woo, 
And  win  her  from  the  loving  all, 

And  yet  the  thing  he  did  not  do : 
And  many  a  boy  will  taunt  a  ghost, 

When  seated  snug  by  cozy  fire, 
Who  does  not  care  to  prove  his  boast, 

And  in  the  churchyard  front  its  ire ; 
And  many  a  man  is  fiercely  brave 

When  woman's  by,  with  tongue  and  fist, 
Who  does  not  choose  to  point  a  glave 

Or  pistol  in  the  bloody  list. 

XII. 

Uncertain,  love  and  hope  and  fear, 

Uncertain,  dark  or  sunny  sky, 
Uncertain  when  shall  come  the  bier, 
Who  first  must  mourn  the  dark  hearse  near, 
And  shed  the  unavailing  tear — 

But  certainly,  we  all  must  die. 
Yet  that  sad  certainty  we  keep 

As  far  off  in  our  mortal  lot 
As  possible.     And  who  would  sleep 

The  leaden  sleep  from  pistol  shot 
Or  sabre  cut  ?  as  dashing  on 
Was  killed  the  "  haughty  Marmion" — 


THE     BEECHEN     TREE. 

Of  whose  last  scene  in  battle  plain 
Thought  Job,  with  hot  and  throbbing  brain ; 
For  he  had  heard,  on  many  a  night, 
His  whilom  friend  the  scene  recite, 
While  Mrs.  Lead  would  clap  her  fan, 
And  King  would  seem  the  very  man  : 
Job's  heart  grew  chilly  at  the  thought, 

And  he  resolved  'twas  base  and  cruel 

In  any  man  to  fight  a  duel ; 
But  then  he  felt  his  life  was  sought, 
And  that  he  would  be  justified 
To  wait  the  change  of  time  and  tide, 

A  due  revenge  to  gather — 
For  burned  his  brow  to  think  that  King, 

A  youngster,  scarcely  out  of  school, 

Of  whom  he  might  be  father, 
With  homicidal  «hand  should  fling 

At  him  a  murderous  music  stool ! 

XIII. 

But  peace,  like  halcyon  o'er  the  wave, 
Came  to  his  stormy  breast,  and  gave 

FalstafFs  gift,  discretion — 
When  came  a  "  d — d  good  natured  friend," 
On  purpose  these  mild  views  to  end, 

And  lead  him  to  transgression. 


36 


THE     BEECHEN     TREK. 
XIV. 

Dobbin,  the  wight  was  named — a  quiz ; 
He  wore  an  elongated  phiz, 

Like  death  in  schoolboys'  primer. 
A  humorist,  he  sought  variety 
In  the  vagaries  of  society — 

And,  like  a  frolic  swimmer, 
To  the  bright  places  he'd  resort, 
Where  he  could  laugh  and  lave  and  sport. 
But  then  he  was  as  shy  the  while, 
As  Indian  paddling  to  an  isle, 
Whose  habitants  he  means  to  take, 
Ere  from  their  slumbers  they  awake, 
And  tie  them  to  the  flaming  stake. 

XV. 

He  liked  King  best,  for  King  and  he 
Had  frolicked  oft  in  company, 

Like  hounds  in  couples  hunting ; 
And  they  belonged  to  the  same  corps, 
And  often  tramp'd  the  city  o'er, 

Behind  the  drum  and  bunting, 
While  from  the  sash  the  Lead  would  stoop, 
And  smile  upon  the  glittering  troop. — 
He  knew  that  King  was  brave  as  Tell, 

Or  Bruce  on  native  heather, 


THE     BEECHEN     TREE.  37 

And  Job  he  thought  would  cut  a  swell, 

But  show  the  craven  feather ; 
That,  therefore,  lots  of  fun  might  be 
Won  from  their  passion's  anarchy. 

XVI. 

He  prompted  King  of  his  design, 

And  then  he  sought  the  shut-up  friar : 
"I've  come,"  he  said,  "  as  friend  of  thine, 

To  know,  dear  sir,  if  you  require, 
In  this  felonious  case  of  King, 

In  this  outrageous  dire  assault, 

(And  that  you  live  is  not  his  fault,) 
My  humble  aid  in  any  thing : 
Pistols  and  coffee,  sir,  for  two, 
Is  all,  I  fear,  that  we  can  do." 

XVIII. 

"  My  dearest  friend,"  quoth  brave  McMyer, 

Shuddering,  as  though  the  leaden  rain 

From  bloody  King  was  in  his  brain, 
Trying  to  make  that  shudder  dire, 

Like  roused-up  lion's  shaking  mane — 
"  Your  friendly  frankness  I  admire : 

I  felt  at  first  his  base  heart's  blood 
Must  the  green  grass  incarnadine, 


38  THE     BEECHEN     TREE. 

And  flow  in  torrents  like  a  flood 
Upon  high  honor's  sacred  shrine. 
I  sought  my  room,  by  passion  stirred, 
Fearing  to  brain  him  at  a  word. 
Don't  press  me  to  a  contest,  don't, 
For  let  me  fight  my  morals  won't : 

But  tell  me  what  is  said,  I  pray, 

•  •% '  ' 

About  this  most  disgraceful  fray  ?" 

XVIII. 

A  twinkle  flashed  in  Dobbin's  eye — 

A  humor,  quiet,  secret,  sly — 

He  gravely  said,  "  The  Judge,  they  say, 

To  hold  you  had  the  hardest  work  ; 

You  jumped  at  King  like  turbaned  Turk, 
And  that  he  sought  to  get  away. 
Between  us  both  and  this  old  chair, 
If  Mrs.  Lead  had  not  been  there, 

You  would  have  had  no  rumpus ; 
But  King,  when  he  no  danger  sees, 
Is  valiant  as  young  Hercules, 

Whose  valor  had  no  compass. 
The  folks  believe,  beyond  a  doubt, 
That  you  will  call  the  assaulter  out, 
And  that  apologies  he'll  yield, 
And  beg  off  from  the  fatal  field," 


THE      BEECHEN     TREE. 

XIX. 

Said  shrewd  McMyer,  "  Dearest  sir, 

In  estimating  character, 

Are  you  quite  certain  you  don't  err  1" 

Beside  his  nose  grave  Dobbin  laid 

His  finger,  as  he  serious  said — 

"  Err  ! — surely  not,  for  King,  the  brave, 

(You  know  with  him  I'm  intimate, 

Though  his  rank  cowardice  I  hate,) 
Told  me  he  sought  no  bloody  grave, 

And  that  he  couldn't  be  made  to  fight." 
"  A  high  resolve,"  exclaimed  the  friar, 
(Ironical  in  his  deep  ire,) 
"  Now,  such  sweet  conduct  I  admire  ! 

I'll  challenge  him  before  'tis  night ; 
I'll  print  and  post  him  through  the  city, 
Till  schoolboys  make  the  theme  a  ditty — 
I'll  kick  him  through  the  streets,  by  thunder, 
Until  the  very  dogs  shall  wonder." 

XX. 

"  That's  just,"  said  Dobbin,  "  what  I'd  do, 
I'd  kick  him  while  I'd  boot  or  shoe, 

As  long  as  I  could  find  him. 
I'd  make  him  think  an  Indian  band, 
With  rods  in  every  brawny  hand, 


40  THE      BEECH  EN     TREK. 

Was  pressing  hard  behind  him ; 
And  never  council  house  should  spread 

Its  safety  o'er  his  suffering  back — 2 
That,  like  the  hounds  Actaeon  fled, 

My  cowhide  should  be  on  his  track, 
Till  all  his  bacon  had  been  flayed, 
Unless  apologies  were  made." 

XXI. 

"  But,  Mr.  Dobbin,"  said  the  friar, 

"  Without  the  least  exaggeration, 
Just  tell  me  what  you  would  require 

(You  know,  dear  sir,  my  rank  and  station- 
Before  you  answer,  do  reflect,) 
Of  King,  sir,  plumply  and  d'irect  ?" 
After  reflection,  long  and  deep, 

Said  Dobbin — "  You,  if  King's  not  fled, 
Before  you  take  a  wink  of  sleep, 
A  pistol  holding  in  each  hand, 
Should  seek  his  office  and  demand 

Written  apologies  for  what 
The  music  stool  has  done  your  head, 

Or  a  duello  on  the  spot. 
For,  injured  sir,  I'm  satisfied 

That  King,  before  he'll  fight,  will  make 

(For  carcase,  not  for  conscience'  sake) 


THEBEECHENTREE.  41 

A  due  atonement  to  your  pride." 
And  forth  he  went,  to  load  and  bring 
His  pistols  to  the  foe  of  King. 

XXII. 

How  often  will  the  poet's  rhyme, 

The  aptness  of  a  heart-learned  thought, 

Come  to  the  mind,  like  dreams  unsought, 
And  with  the  passing  subject  chime, 

As  if  to  order  they  were  made, 

When  truly  it  was  first  displayed 
On  subject  different  as  can  be  ! 

As  different  as  the  fire's  loud  bell 

Is  from  the  vesper  tones  that  swell 
At  evening,  peacefully. 
For  instance,  in  these  lines  of  Scott, 
Put  "  friar"  where  you  "  maiden"  blot : 
"  Ask  me  not  what  the  maiden  feels, 

Left  in  that  dreadful  hour  alone ; 
Perchance  her  reason  stoops  and  reels — 

Perchance  a  courage  not  her  own 

Braces  her  mind  to  desperate  tone." 

XXIII. 

Dobbin,  meanwhile,  had  told  King  all, 
Then  charged  his  pistols  full  with  ball, 


42  THEBEECHENTREE. 

But  pulpy  ball  of  blood-red  berry, 
About  the  size  of  largest  cherry,} 

Such  as  are  put  in  tarts, 
Which  ladies  after  dinner  take, 
And  use  up  when  they  merry  make, 

Just  as  they  use  up  hearts ; 
In  doing  which  they're  seldom  slow, 
Whene'er  the  hearts  are  made  of  dough. 

XXIV. 

Then  Dobbin  went  to  Job's  abode, 
Who  felt  the  while  as  bad  as  did 

His  namesake  in  the  Jewish  code, 
When  he  was  in  the  ashes  hid  ; 

But  he  had  passed  the  Rubicon — 
Rome,  in  the  shape  of  Mrs.  Lead, 
And  his  abused  and  aching  head, 
And  what  the  world  might  say,  had  said, 

Required  the  dark  deed  should  be  done. 
And  could  it  be  that  King  had  fled  ? 

From  Dobbin's  stay  it  might  be  so — 

Perhaps  apologies  from  Joe 

He  waited  to  write  fairly  out ! 

But  Dobbin  came,  and  went  the  doubt ; 

For  forth  in  each  hand,  from  his  pocket, 


THEBEECHENTREE.  43 

A  pistol  he  deliberate  drew, 
Turned  each  one  over  to  the  view, 
Pronounced  each  one  hair  trigger  true, 

And  straight  prepared  to  cock  it — 

When  Job  made  quickly  the  request, 

That  he  would  let  him  do  the  rest. 

XXV. 

When  both  before  a  table  stood, 
And  deep  drank  Job  of  flaming  flood, 

Which  Indians  call  fire-water ; 
An  element  which  stirs  the  spunk 

To  deeds  of  desperate  slaughter, 
And  sometimes  makes  the  drinker  drunk. 

XXVI. 

Thus  having  drank,  the  friar  took 
The  pistols,  and  with  Roman  look, 

From  brandy-flashing  eye, 
Sought  King,  who  in  his  office  sat, 
Demurely  as  a  tabby  cat, 
Who  knows  the  tricks  of  Mr.  Rat, 

Which  she  won't  ratify. 

XXVII. 

"  Sir,"  said  the  friar,  addressing  King, — 
At  the  same  moment  offering 


44  THE       BEECHEN      TRE.E. 

A  loaded  pistol  to  his  view, — 
"  There's  one  of  three  things  you  must  do," 
(For  Job,  in  mercy,  thought  he'd  give 
Another  chance  to  Joe  to  live,) 
"  Decide  at  once  which  you  prefer  ; 
To  beg  my  pardon  or  to  fight, — 
And  one  of  us  must  die  outright, — 
Or  now  to  leave  the  city,  sir !" 

XXVIII. 

"  What,  here  !"  said  King,  with  well  feigned  fright, 
Snatching  the  pistols  at  the  sight, 
"  Come  you  with  an  intent  to  kill  1 
Sir,  you  shall  die  before  I  will !" 

And  as  the  lightning,  quick  he  shot 
Both  pistols  at  the  friar's  head. 
They  hit  him  plump,  those  berries  red, 

And  down  he  fell  upon  the  spot, 
Calling  out  murder  !  with  a  cry 

That  would  have  made  the  cold  dead  start, 
(If  they  for  mortal  sounds  had  ear,) 
And  give  wild  welcome  to  the  bier 
That  soon  must  draw  their  dark  homes  near. 
The  terror-stricken  passers-by 

Rush  in,  with  palpitating  heart, 


THE     BEECHEN     TREE.  45 

And  gather  round  the  fallen  man, 
From  whom  it  seemed  the  life-blood  ran, 
For  red  was  brow  and  red  was  cheek, 
And  he  in  vain  essayed  to  speak. 
"  Give  him,"  they  said,  "  a  little  breath;" 
"  Sir,  who  has  done  this  deed  of  death?" 
And  all  called  out  to  give  him  air, 
Yet  crowded  close  to  hear  and  stare. 

XXIX. 

"  Alas  !"  said  sad  McMyer,  sighing, 
"  Ah !  gentlemen,  I  feel — I'm  dying — 
O  Lord  !  my  brain  is  rent  and  riven ; — 

My  dying  declarations  are — 
Let  them  in  evidence  be  given — 

They'll  give  him  to  the  gallows  tree, 
That  that  man,  standing  right  up  there, 
Dressed  all  in  black,  with  coal-black  hair, 
Who  laughs  with  such  hysteric  stare, 

Named  Joseph  King,  has  murdered  me  !" 


CANTO  III. 


THE  WAY  OF  THE  WORLD, 


I. 

JOB  died  not.     Still  he  lives  and  thrives  ; 
But  he  must  have  a  cat's  nine  lives, 

And  with  mortality  dispense, 
If  he  outlive  the  merriment 
That  through  the  town  and  country  went 

Upon  his  dying  evidence. 

II. 

Job  died  not ;  but  he  roams  afar, 
Away  beneath  some  other  star, 
An  exile  from  his  former  haunts, 
Of  which,  alas,  no  more  he  vaunts. 
He  changed  his  station  and  his  name — 
A  wig  he  got  and  clothing  changed — 


THEBEECHENTREE.  47 

Quite  thin  and  lantern-like  became, 

And  as  a  traveller  widely  ranged  ; 
But  came  not  back,  nor  ever  spoke 
Of  that  expatriating  joke. 
And  when,  unknown,  a  monstrous  tale, 

When  he  was  by,  was  told  about  it, 
He  looked,  'tis  true,  a  little  pale, 

But  then  he  did  not  seem  to  doubt  it. 

III. 

He  wore  a  face,  say  half  resigned, 
Like  one  who  has  a  troubled  mind, 

And  struggles  not  to  show  it  ; 
Who  glances  at  you,  inkling,  shy, 
As  of  himself  in  you  he'd  spy 
A  knowledge  of  some  awful  lie ; 
Sometimes  as  if  he  would  defy 
Your  tattling — then  imploringly — 

Then  doubting  if  you  know  it. 
And  sometimes,  too,  his  former  look, 
Like  meaning  in  an  ancient  book, 

Would  forth  obscurely  gleam  : 
And  often,  like  the  mighty  sun, 
When  envious  clouds  of  deepest  dun 
Darken  the  glorious  race  he'd  run, 

His  face  would  blushing  beam. 


48  THEBEECHENTREE. 

IV. 

But  oftenest  of  all,  he  wore 

The  look  of  one  from  Stygian  shore, 

Who,  by  the  god,  was  driven  thence 

To  mend  his  dying  evidence, 

And  state  it  was  not  wound  of  lead, 

(Widow  or  metal,  be  it  said,) 

But  fright  that  lowly  laid  his  head. 

V. 

'Twas  just  a  week  from  the  dark  day 
Of  that  most  foul,  but  bloodless  fray, 
When  Job  had  been  six  days  away, 

A  wanderer,  none  knew  where, 
That  King,  with  album  in  his  hand, 
Called  on  that  lady  of  the  land, 

Whose  acres  made  her  fair, 
And  gave  her  power,  by  golden  chain, 
To  hold  him  in  her  glittering  train. 

VI. 

His  step  was  confident,  like  one 
; .     Who  feels  the  battle  has  been  won ; 
On  that  gilt-edged  memento  page, 
Which  pleasantly  his  thoughts  engage. 


THEBEECHENTREE.  49 

He'd  copied  lines  which  he  had  written 
For  Helen,  when  he  first  was  smitten, 

With  hopes  that  he  had  caught  her ; 
And  by  those  lines  there  hung  a  hook, 
With  which  he  hoped,  by  hook  or  crook, 

To  fish  in  deeper  water. 
But  lines  that  catch  a  little  fish, 
Won't  bring  a  bouncer  to  your  dish. 

LINES  IN  MRS.  LEAD'S  ALBUM. 
This  book,  fair  Lady,  love's  own  votive  shrine, 
Where  all  yield  homage,  and  I,  humblest,  mine, 
May  well  record  a  heart-felt  tribute,  due 
Since  its  first  impulse  was  awaked  by  you. 
Lady,  when  others  spoke  of  woman's  power, 
And  blessed  the  meeting,  feared  the  parting  hour ; 
Told  of  the  love-bower,  of  the  greetings  bland, 
The  electric  fluid  of  the  thrilling  hand, 
The  sweet  contagion  of  the  mutual  look, 
Where  truth  was  read  as  in  the  poet's  book  ; 
The  whispered  tone  that  trembled  to  be  heard, 
The  silence,  love-fraught,  more  than  warmest  word, 
The  hope  that  clothed  the  summer  bower  at  even 
With  all  the  rainbow  hues  of  smiling  heaven, 
Where  was  her  presence,  like  a  gift  of  light 
3 


50  THE       BEECHEN      TREE. 

Making  each  thing  around  her  beauty — bright : 

When  others  told  all  this  I've  laughed  the  thought, 

Pronounced  it  folly,  or  believed  it  naught ; 

But  now,  O  Lady  !  I  have  lived  to  prove 

The  truth,  the  strength,  the  constancy  of  love. 

As  those  who  sought  the  oracles  of  old, 

And  to  them  only  their  heart-feelings  told, 

The  fateful  answer  being  the  behest, 

To  make  them  hopeless  or  to  make  them  blest ; 

Thus  I,  as  first  from  you  the  impulse  came, 

Bear  to  the  altar  its  most  sacred  flame. 

You  have  my  heart,  my  worship,  and  my  vow — 

What  shall  my  fate  be,  Lady?  speak  it  now. 

If  'tis  propitious,  wherefore  should  I  speak — 

Your  heart  will  tell  you  language  here  is  weak ; 

If  'tis  unkind,  O !  give  some  Lethean  spell 

To  calm  the  anguish  of  my  sad  farewell ! 

VII. 

Oft  smiled  the  lady,  while  she  read, 

Which  King,  of  course,  propitious  thought, 
Believing  that  the  fish  was  caught ; 

And  low  he  spoke — and  she,  he  said, 

Was  unto  him  last  love  and  first — 

That  in  those  verses,  not  his  worst, 


THE     BEECHEN     TREE.  51 

His  swollen  heart  had  from  him  burst, 
Like  waters  from  a  fountain  head. 

VIII. 

Never  a  word  the  Lady  uttered, 

Till  King's  wild  words  had  all  ran  out, 
And  then  she  blushed  and  faintly  muttered, 

The  lines  were  beautiful,  no  doubt ; 
But  that  she'd  read  them  oft  before, 

In  album  of  Miss  Merry  vale  : 
That  sad  she'd  be  for  evermore, 
If  there  was  truth  in  his  fond  tale. 
"  Do  let  me  with  you,  sir,  prevail, 

To  let  this  hopeless  passion  end  ; 

I  still  esteem  you  as  a  friend — 

Further  my  feelings  may  not  tend. 
In  kindness  to  you,  Mr.  King, 
A  just  reserve  aside  I'll  fling — 

I  hope  you'll  bear  no  taint  of  grudge" — 
"  Who  else,"  cried  King,  "  is  in  the  list  ?" — 
Clenching  his  hand  in  shape  of  fist. — 
"  I've  not  been  able  to  resist 

The  Honorable  Ely  Fudge !" 

IX. 

Morn,  in  the  merry  month  of  May, 
And  young  Spring,  like  a  maiden  gay, 


52  THE     BEECHEN     TREE. 

In  her  best  bib  and  tucker  dressed, 
With  mantle  green  o'er  budding  breast, 

Tries  with  old  Time  to  flirt, 
To  dally  with  his  locks  so  gray, 
And  slyly  slip  his  scythe  away; 
While  he,  to  use  a  vulgar  phrase, 
Regardless  of  the  maiden's  ways, 

Continues  to  cut  dirt. 
"  Go  it,  old  fellow,"  said  the  Kemble,' 

Addressing  this  same  Father  Time, 
And  if  a  lady  wont  dissemble — 
A  lady  and  a  lady  poet, 
And  at  his  wrinkling  footsteps  tremble, 

But  freely  speak  her  thoughts  sublime, 
And  bid  the  daring  gray-beard  go  it, 
Though  all  the  wondering  world  should  know  it — 
Why  I  may  say  what  I  have  said, 
"  Cut  dirt !" — which  meaneth, — Go  ahead. 

X. 

The  fact  is,  Fanny,  that  the  fair, 

Though  they  won't  speak,  or  print,  or  show  it, 
Shrink  from  a  man  with  silver  hair, 

And  never  bid  the  gray-beard  go  it ! 
And,  therefore,  have  they  railed  at  you — 


THEBEECHENTREE.  53 

Firstly,  for  being  skyey  blue  ; 
And  secondly,  for  speaking  pat 
Of  this  thing,  Fanny,  and  of  that. 

XI. 

It  happened  once  upon  a  day, 

(Fair  Fanny — be  this  tale  between  us,) 
Before  the  Medicean  Venus, 

(Which  is  the  very  type  of  Her 

Who  rose  from  ocean's  veiling  spray, 
When  man  became  her  worshipper,) 

That  many  stood  admiring  much 

The  artist's  more  than  mortal  touch, 

And  one  whose  fame  was  not  so  fair 

As  to  let  sleep  her  guardian  care, 

Turned  frowning  from  the  marble  white, 

Saying,  she  could  not  stand  the  sight, 

Which  she  pronounced  indecent,  quite. 

Another,  cold  as  unsunned  snow, 

Except  when  Virtue  made  her  glow — 

Said,  "  If  from  the  cold  marble  aught 

That  was  immoral  had  been  caught, 

'Twas  surely  from  improper  thought." 

Fanny,  when  next  you  write  a  journal, 

Just  put  this  fact  in  your  diurnal. 


54  THE     BEECH  ENTREE. 

XII. 

Morn  in  the  Spring  time's  merry  day, 
The  merry  streamlet  throws  its  spray, 
Not  fearing  winter  on  its  way  ; 
Merry  in  greenwood  is  the  bird, 
Merry  on  greensward  is  the  herd, 
And  merrily  the  branches  swing, 
And  merrily  the  squirrels  spring  ; 

Merry  in  meadow  is  the  bee — 
A  merrier  voice  ear  hath  not  heard 

Than  Nature  with  her  minstrelsy. 
Now,  merry  school-boys  in  the  morn, 

Bound  to  school  with  merry  spring ; 

How  merrily  the  milkmaids  sing  ! 
Roses  are  now  on  every  thorn, 

But  sad  is  Mr.  Joseph  King. 

XIII. 

The  lady  Lead  is  married  now 
To  the  peace-maker,  Ely  Fudge — 

And  though  a  boy  has  blest  their  vow 
King  has  not  swallowed  all  his  grudge  ; 

The  buried  hatchet  shows  a  point, 

As  shows  your  fist  the  knuckle  joint. 

This  very  morn  he  met  a  girl, 


THE     BEECHEN     TREE.  55 

With  a  plump  infant  in  her  arms  ; 
Struck  with  the  babe's  display  of  pearl, 

And  with  the  rosy  nurse's  charms, 
He  stopped  and,  musingly  and  mild, 
Inquired  the  parents  of  the  child  ? 
The  maiden  pass'd  him  careless  by, 
Scarce  noticing  his  flattering  eye, 
And  answered  with  ill-hidden  scorn, 

That  nearly  rose  to  notes  of  laughter, 
'Twas  Mrs.  Fudge's  latest  born  ! 

Dark  was  King's  brow  for  long  hours  after. 
He  therefore  thought  he'd  take  a  walk, 
And  with  the  goddess  Nature  talk, 
The  only  one  of  female  gender 
That  did  not  seem  a  base  pretender. 

XIV. 

How  naturally  his  footsteps  turned, 
To  where  his  youthful  heart  had  burned, 

Beneath  the  beechen  tree  ! 
He  went  along  a  winding  path, 
That  like  our  wayward  passions  hath 

A  wild  variety. 

He  seemed  in  pensive  pilgrim  state, 
Like  one  who  wends  to  mourn  his  fate, 

Forth  to  a  far  countrie. 


56  THEBEECHENTREE 

Forth  to  the  shrine  where  he  had  knelt, 

When  first  the  thrill  divine  was  felt  ; 
Forth  to  the  shrine  he  had  forsaken 

For  one  that  was  the  earthlier  far  ; 
What !  dreams  he  that  he  will  be  taken- 
That  is,  that  he  can  save  his  bacon — 

With  that  lost  Pleiad  Star  ? 

XV. 

Now  the  slight  streamlet  he  has  past — 
Has  reached  the  beechen  tree  at  last  ; 
And  thinking  in  his  feeling's  dearth, 

As  he  self-probed  his  lone  heart's  wound- 
Between  two  stools  we  come  to  earth,) 

He  threw  himself  upon  the  ground, 
And  sorrowful  on  tree  and  brook 
And  through  the  woods  cast  mournful  look. 

XVI. 

Lo  !  from  the  beech  some  one  had  hacked- 
Whose  could  the  envious  hatchet  be  ? 

The  marrer  had  not  woodman's  tact — 
The  names  and  the  embroidery, 

Which  King  had  carved  there  to  the  life, 

At  cost  of  more  than  one  good  knife, 


THEBEECHENTREE.  57 

No  graven  tree  could  match  it ; 
But  man  woos  often  ere  he  wives, 
"  And  scissors  cut  as  well  as  knives," 

And  so,  it  seems,  does  hatchet. 

XVII. 

Thus,  as  King  mused  beside  the  beech, 
A  rustling  sound  salutes  his  ear — 
(Once  how  he  longed  such  sounds  to  hear) — 
Now  starts  he  to  find  Helen  near, 

And  frozen  are  his  parts  of  speech. 

XVIII. 

She  went  upon  an  impulse  there — 

Its  sources  were  of  various  hues — 
So  sweetly  breathed  the  Spring's  fresh  air  ; 

Perhaps  she  might  have  had  the  blues ; 

And  knowing  that  her  walking  shoes 
(Though  country-made,  she  thought  them  neat) 
Would  well  protect  her  fairy  feet, 

She  felt  like  tripping  forth,  and  then 
How  natural  to  pass  the  wood — 
The  wood  where,  as  a  girl,  she  played — 
Where,  as  a  woman,  oft  she  strayed — 

The  fairest  flower  by  glade  or  glen, 
3* 


58 


THE     BEECHEN     TREE. 

A  queen  in  sylvan  solitude. 
Alas  !  that  solitude  was  broken 

By  vows,  that  now  are  broken  too  ; 
And  there  is  of  that  breakage  token — 

And  if  not  in  her  eye  so  blue, 

Nor  in  her  cheek  that  holds  its  hue, 
Yet  know  you  not  that  there  is  grief 

That  has  no  utterance  in  word, 
Of  which  no  human  tongue  has  told, 
Which  practised  eye  cannot  behold— 
Which  stronger  is,  because  relief 

Was  never  sought  or  heard ! 

XIX. 

And  old  maids  say,  that  china  ware 

Of  purest  earth,  ycleped  porcelain, — 
Of  such  are  hearts  of  maidens  fair, 

Though  it  be  broken  quite  in  twain — 
If  it  be  joined  with  proper  care, 

Will  show  no  crack  or  even  stain, 
And  they  to  you  will  almost  swear 

It  breaks  not  there  again. 
Yet  lovers,  strike  it  with  your  finger, 

You'll  find  that  golden  bowl  will  give 
No  more  the  sounds,  which  once  would  linger 


THEBEECHENTREE.  59 

Within  its  cell,  as  if  they'd  live 
Obedient  to  your  touch  for  ever — 

Now  grates  that  sound  upon  your  ear  ; 

Pray  hold  the  bowl  your  organ  near, 
You'll  find  it  echoes — never. 

XX. 

Tread  on  a  belle's  dress  at  a  ball, 

Or  on  her  silken  slipper  tread, 
That  holds  a  throbbing  corn  in  thrall — 

Will  she  not  toss  a  haughty  head, 

Yet  start  as  if  her  peace  had  fled  ? 
Thus  started  Helen,  when  she  met 
King  by  that  laughing  rivulet, 
Which,  with  an  air,  she  quick  recrossed, 
And  back  at  him  her  dark  locks  tossed — 
Just  as  we  fling  defiance  back 
To  foeman,  who  has  crossed  our  track  ; 
Yet  did  her  woman's  nature  steal 

A  glance,  as  quick  she  hurried  off, 
Which  looks  of  other  days  reveal, 

Mingled  with  an  intent  to  scoff. 

XXI. 

King  felt  as  if  he'd  like  to  creep 
Into  the  smallest  kind  of  nut, 


60  THEBEECHENTREE 

And  all  forgotten  and  asleep 
Be  there  for  ever  shut. 

XXII. 

Rallying  at  last — upon  a  bill — 

A  worn-out  bill,  which  on  this  day 

He  had  made  promises  to  pay — 
And,  as  he  could  not  those  fulfil, 
Could  it  have  been  the  impending  ill 

That  hastened  him  from  town  away  ? 
Upon  this  vile  leaf,  bailiff-dotted, 

With  ever-pointed  pencil,  Joe, 
Avoiding  where  the  place  was  blotted, 

Thus  spoke  his  everlasting  woe  : 

THE  BEE  CHEN  TREE. 

1. 

He  carved  two  names  upon  the  beechen  tree, 
Encircling  them  with  a  deep-graven  heart ; 

Beneath  its  shade  young  Helen  vowed  to  be 
His  loved  and  loving — when  she  rose  to  part, 
As  Summer's  twilight  deepened  into  dark, 
He  stay'd  behind  her  there  and  carved  the  beechen  bark 

2. 

He  stay'd  behind  her,  for  there  was  a  feud 
Between  their  houses,  and  he  might  not  go 


THE     BEECHEN     TREE. 


61 


Beside  her  to  the  house  beyond  the  wood, 

Else  might  their  loves  be  fruitful  but  in  woe  : 
That  tree  became  their  trysting-place — there  she 
Came  often  through  the  wood,  humming  a  melody. 

3. 

And,  with  a  like  intent,  he  careless  came, 

As  if  a  fisher  loitering  to  the  brook — 
O  !  how  they  spoke  of  the  deep  nurtured  flame  ! 

And  when  they  parted,  how  he  loved  to  look 
After  that  form  that  brightened  so  the  wood — 
And  when  at  last  'twas  lost,  how  sad  the  solitude  ! 

4. 

Years  past :  unwished,  yet  by  a  master  power, 
Their  vows  were  broken,  and  they  met  by  chance 

Beneath  that  tree,  in  summer's  twilight  hour ; 
Each  started,  as  they  met  each  other's  glance ; 

And  strangely  to  their  minds  uprose  their  youth — 

The  tree — the  graven  name — the  oft-vowed  pledge  of  truth. 

5. 

Their  names  had  been  cut  out  from  the  tree's  side — 
Its  sickly  greenness  told  how  deep  the  scar  : 

He  looked  upon  her  with  a  sullen  pride, 
And  she  turned  from  him  hurrying  afar. 


62  THEBEECHENTREE. 

He  did  not  watch  her  as  she  homeward  went — 
But  left  with  a  dark  brow,  upon  the  past  intent. 


No  other  name  can  be  engraven  there, 

In  the  first  freshness  of  that  beechen  tree — 

And  she  may  listen  to  another's  prayer, 

And  he  to  other  maids  may  bend  the  knee  ; 

Yet  in  their  hearts  abides  for  aye  the  token 

Of  the  first  vows  they  made,  now  miserably  broken ! 


CANTO  IV. 


E  MIGRATION, 


I. 

"  WESTWARD,  the  star  of  empire  takes 
Its  way,"  says  Bishop  Berkley's  lay, 
And  that,  thought  Joe,  is  what  I  say. 
Quotations  and  resolves  he  makes 
At  once — and  soon  is  far  away, 

II. 

But  on  the  night  before  he  went, 
To  cheer  his  last  leave-taking, 
He  gave  a  supper,  where  was  blent 
So  much  of  frolic,  merriment,        '  f  "• 

It  seemed  a  merry-making — 
To  show  his  withers  were  unwrung 
By  Helen  Fudge  or  Slander's  tongue — 


64  THE     BEECHEN     TREE. 

As  matin  cock  was  waking, 
The  coming  song  he  gayly  sung — • 
Then  in  the  coach  his  corpus  flung. 

ANACREONTIC  FAREWELL. 

We'll  drink  to  those  who  are  drinking  now, 
Who  on  joys  like  ours  are  ever  thinking  ; 
Who  fill  the  bowl  with  a  laughing  brow, 
And  thus  are  ever  drinking,  drinking  : 
Then,  dearest,  fill  my  cup  for  me, 
And  I  will  fill  thy  cup  for  thee ; 
Thus  will  we  love  and  wine  impart, 
And  pour  their  gladness  in  the  heart. 

We'll  drink  to  those  who  are  roving  now 
From  fair  to  fair,  as  we  are  roving, 

Who  give  to  each  a  passing  vow, 
And  thus  are  ever  loving,  loving  : — 
Then,  dearest,  &c. 

Come,  kiss  me,  while  you  brim  the  bowl ; 

Now,  while  its  liquid  joys  are  streaming, 
We'll  taste  the  grape's  delicious  soul, 

While  thy  dark  eye  is  beaming,  beaming  :• 
Then,  dearest,  &c. 


THE     BEECHEN     TREE.  65 

What's  life  ? — a  desert's  cheerless  woe, 

And  we  are  pilgrims  onward  going, 
And  wine's  the  sparkling  fountain's  flow, 

To  cheer  us  onward,  flowing,  flowing  : — 
Then,  dearest,  &c. 

And  by  that  fountain  blooms  a  flower — 

Woman — when  our  joys  are  cloying, 
We'll  bear  our  wine-cup  to  her  bower, 

And  thus  for  aye  be  joying,  joying  : — 
Then,  dearest,  &c. 

Fill  deep,  for  it  is  early  yet — <• 

Be  far  away  the  thought  of  roaming — 

We  saw  the  glorious  day-god  set, 
And  o'er  the  hills  he's  coming,  coming  — 
Then,  dearest,  &c. 

With  the  fair  dawn  I  haste  away, 
To  the  far  West  my  footsteps  turning, 

Where  Freedom,  like  the  shining  day, 

Wide  o'er  the  land  is  burning,  burning  : — 
Then,  dearest,  &c. 

Yet  will  I  bear  ye  in  my  heart, 
With  every  sense  of  gladness  living, 


66  THEBEECHENTREE. 

With  all  that  friendship  can  impart, 
And  all  that  love  is  giving,  giving  : — 
Then,  dearest,  &c. 


We  lit  the  lamp  of  law  together, 

And  when,  alas  !  it  wanted  trimming, 

We  sought,  like  birds,  less  murky  weather, 

The  generous  wine-cup  brimming,  brimming  :- 
Then,  dearest,  &c. 

We've  met  in  many  a  festive  hall, 

And  whispered  low  to  beauty  list'ning, 

And  sought  in  vain  to  tell  of  all 

With  which  the  eye  was  glist'ning,  glist'ning  :- 
Then,  dearest,  &c. 

We  joined  our  hearts  in  boyhood's  glee, 

When  all  the  world  seemed  made  for  laughing, 
And  now,  if  parted  we  must  be, 

Why,  brim  the  bowl — be  quaffing,  quaffing  : — 
Then,  dearest,  fill  my  cup  for  me, 
And  I  will  fill  thy  cup  for  thee ; 
Thus  will  we  love  and  wine  impart, 
And  pour  their  gladness  in  the  heart. 


THEBEECHENTREE.  67 

III. 

How  well  that  driver  winds  his  horn  ! 
Deep  in  a  murky,  morbid  morn, 

At  two  o'clock  precisely, 
Away  the  bounding  mail  stage  bears 
Our  hero,  but  without  his  cares ; 

Those  he  had  left,  most  wisely, 
With  all  those  promises  to  pay, 
Which  had  been  burdens  on  the  way. 

IV. 

If  touched  in  heart,  he's  sound  in  limb : 

Here  Walter  Scott  and  Talleyrand, 

And  Chatham,  lover  of  our  land  ; 

And  ever-glorious  Grattan,  and 

Argesilaus,  of  Spartan  fame, 

And  Timour,  justly  called  the  lame, 
And  Byron,  were  all  fools  to  him  : 
Men  who  for  ups  and  downs  seemed  sent, 
But  most  when  they  a  walking  went : 
And  frail  old  Milton,  what  was  he — 

For  whom  the  light  celestial  shone 

Upon  his  mental  path  alone; — 
Or  Homer,  blind  as  blind  could  be, 
Or  Ossian — let  us  name  the  three — 
Men  who  we  well  know  could  not  see 


68  THEBEECHENTREE. 

The  nose  before  them — to  compare 
To  Joe,  who  could  forthwith  outstare 
A  ball-room's  gallant  companie. 

These  fellows,  though,  knew  how  to  climb 
The  steep,  where  each  could  write  his  name, 
And  call  on  trumpet-bearing  Fame, 

And  bid  her  speak  it  unto  Time — 
And  bid  Time  speak  it  unto  air, 
As  long  as  rolled  an  echo  there. 

V. 

You  take  this,  sir,  for  a  digression ; 

But  were  you  ever  westward  driven, 
Where  Pittsburgh,  like  a  deep  transgression, 

Looks  black,  and  smells  and  smokes  to  heaven? 
Then  have  you  crept  from  stage  o'erset — 

And,  thankful  if  your  limbs  were  saved — 
In  miry  road,  all  dripping  wet, 

The  cold  and  cheerless  midnight  braved, 
And  left  some  fellow-traveller  lone, 
In  broken  stage,  with  broken  bone. 

VI. 

At  first  Joe  noticed  not  the  scene, 

But  thought  of  those  from  whom  he'd  tore  him— 


THE     BEECHKN     TREE. 

Of  what  he  was,  and  might  have  been, 

And  of  tramontane  lands  before  him. 
But  when  on  Laurel-hill  the  stage 

Stopped  for  a  while  to  rest  the  steeds, 

O,  how  his  poet-fancy  feeds 
On  nature's  outstretched,  gorgeous  page  : 

To  the  horizon  blue,  around 
O'er  flood  and  forest,  hill  and  river, 

He  looked  with  kindling  rapture  bound, 
And  felt  that  he  could  look  forever  : 

From  Nature's  altars  to  the  skies, 

How  beautiful  the  mists  uprise 
O'er  the  deep- wooded  mountain's  side; 

While  in  the  valley's  verdant  breast, 

As  quietly  the  waters  rest 
As  an  encircled  bride  : 

And  far  away  in  distant  view, 

Rests  the  blue  sky  on  mountain  blue. 

VII. 

There's  champaigne  in  this  mountain  air — 
Behold  those  humble  dwellings  there, 

Perched  in  the  mountain  solitude ; 
Is  not  the  scene  surpassing  fair  ? 

And  when  the  wintry  storms  intrude, 


70 


THE     BEECHEN     TREE. 

And  those  dark  forests  flout  the  sky, 
Their  dwellers  look,  like  Tell,  on  high — 
And  smile,  as  the  dark  storm  goes  by, 
Proud  of  their  home's  wild  liberty. 

VIII. 

And  Liberty  is  proud  of  them ; 
Her  eyrie  is  with  eagle  hearts  ! 

(For  long  she  cannot  bless  the  plain,) 

* 
And  they  for  her  will  sternly  stem 

The  hosts  that  press  from  servile  marts — 
Slaves  to  some  stolen  diadem — 
And  greet  her  with  a  loud  acclaim, 
And  plant  her  banner  on  the  steep, 
And  light  her  beacon  fires — and  keep 
Such  watch  as  those  free  Spartans  kept 
When  Xerxes  and  his  millions  slept. 

IX. 

Joe  thought  of  him,  a  madcap  wight, 
Who,  from  a  Bedlam  broke  away1 
(There's  method  in  this  madman's  say,) 

And  wandered  to  this  glorious  height, 
When  o'er  it  broke  a  summer's  day — 

And  stretching  forth  to  eastern  land 


THE     BEECHEN     TREE.  71 

Prophetic  voice  and  lifted  hand — 

(For  madmen  once  were  held  to  be 

The  instruments  of  prophecy) — 

Spoke  loud  the  words  of  high  command ; 

As  if,  to  marshalled  men  in  order, 

He  bid  "  blue  bonnets  cross  the  border," 

And  called  on  nations,  empires,  states, 

To  listen  to  his  voice  and  fates — 

To  right  about  and  follow  far,^ 

Far  Westward,  Freedom's  guiding  star  ! 

X. 

Joe  did  not  wonder,  as  he  gazed 

Wide  o'er  the  glory  of  the  earth, 
O'er  which  the  sun  in  gladness  blazed, 

As  when  the  Maker  gave  it  birth, 
And  said  that  it  was  good,  and  smiled  : 

Joe  did  not  wonder  Evil's  fount — 

That  Tempter  who  had  caused  the  fall, 
Led  the  meek  Saviour  from  the  wild 

Up  to  the  top  of  highest  mount ; 
And  as  the  greatest  bribe  to  err, 

There  offered  him  those  broad  lands  all, 
If  he  would  be  his  worshipper ! 
(Think  of  the  Devil's  brazen  phiz, 


72  THE     BEECHEN     TREE. 

When  not  an  inch  of  land  was  his  !) 

'Tis  ever  thus  with  Satan,  though ; — 
He'll  offer  you  as  bright  a  bribe, 
As  eye  can  see,  or  tongue  describe, 

Or  lying  Hope  bestow  ; 
And  when  he's  bound  your  soul  in  chains, 
You've  got  your  trouble  for  your  pains  ! 

XI. 

The  Indian,  and  the  bounding  deer — 
The  forest-roving  pioneer  ;8 
Brave  Braddock,  on  his  bloody  bier — 
The  scene  where  he  had  breathed  his  last, 
When  frighted  men  were  flying  past ; 
When  rushed  the  red  men  like  a  flood 
Upon  them  in  the  wildering  wood, 
And  youthful  Washington  bestrode 
The  field  of  battle,  like  a  god  ! 

At  Pittsburgh,  Joe  did  not  awaken, 
With  any  thought  of  lang  syne  days, — 
Nor  even  give  them  passing  praise : 

'Most  to  a  mummy  was  he  shaken, — 
And  the  development  which  lies 
On  the  head's  side,  and  there  supplies 
The  thought  poetical,  of  ideality, 


THE     BEECHEN     TREE. 

Was  knocked  in,  out  of  all  reality  ! 

A  bounce,  that  nearly  caused  contusion, 

Had  spread  there  wild  and  dark  confusion  ! 

No  more  he  felt  self-eulogy, 

As,  with  his  thumb  in  Christmas  pie, 

Felt  little  Jacky  Homer  ; 
As  when  some  cabin  built  to  brave 
The  mountain  blast  or  torrent  wave, 
Some  fierce  tornado  makes  our  grave, 
Those  bumps  became  the  grave  of  rhyme, 
In  which,  like  bards  of  England's  prime, 

It  slept  in  Poet's  Corner. 

XII. 

King  in  a  steamer  quickly  took 

A  passage  to  the  cities  west, 
Meaning  to  have  at  all  a  look, 

And  settle  in  the  best. 
Relieved  from  the  knee-crooking  stage, 

As  if  he  lay  in  lap  of  earth, 

He  stretched  himself  within  his  berth, 
And  thought  upon  his  pilgrimage. 
The  steamer  moves — the  paddles  plash— 
And  soon  upon  their  way  they  dash. 
As  is  the  custom  of  the  crew, 
4 


74  THEBEECHENTREE. 

When  they  approach,  or  bid  adieu, 

To  large  town  or  to  city, 
O'er  wave  and  wood — o'er  glade  and  glen, 

Rung  forth  a  merry  ditty  ; 
And  Joe,  caught  quick,  with  flying  pen, 
This  song  of  western  steamboat  men. 

SONG. 

1. 
Ye  mariners,  who  sail  the  seas, 

I'm  told  you've  made  the  boast, 
Of  all  who  go  upon  the  waves, 

You  hold  yourselves  the  toast ; 
But  list  to  me,  ye  mariners, 

As  bounding  on  ye  go, 
A-cracking  up  your  merry  ship, 
With  your  wild  yo  !  heave  ho  ! 

2. 

I'll  not  deny,  ye  mariners, 

It  is  a  joyous  thing, 
To  see  ye  dashing  on  your  way, 

Like  bird  upon  the  wing ; 
Ye  wave  a  farewell  hand  to  home, 

And  then  away  ye  sweep, 


THEBEECHENTREE.  75 

To  where  the  blue  sky  rests  upon 
The  bosom  of  the  deep. 

3. 

But  mariners — but  mariners — 

When  loud  the  storm  doth  blow, 
Ye  have  a  toilsome  time,  my  boys,  , 

With  your  wild  yo !  heave  ho  ! 
And  when  at  last  the  calm  comes  on, 

And  ye  swing  upon  the  sea, 
How  sad  are  then  your  thoughts  of  home, 

And  sadder  they  must  be. 

4. 

Oh,  how  ye  at  the  sweepers  tug, 

And  how  ye  have  to  tow, 
And  faint  and  weary  comes  the  cry 

Then  of  your  yo  !  heave  ho  ! 
Ye  say  ye  hate  to  hear  our  noise, 

Our  puffing,  and  our  buzz  ; 
But  don't  forget,  ye  mariners, 

That  '  pretty  is  that  does  !' 

5. 

Blow  high  or  low,  ye  mariners, 
'Tis  all  the  same  to  us ; 


76  THE      BEECHEN     TREE. 

The  storm  may  blow  its  last  breath  out, 

What  care  we  for  the  fuss ! 
And  I've  not  told  of  shipwrecks,  boys, 

Upon  the  stormy  main  ; 
The  long-boat  swamped,  and  the  wild  crew, 

Wh&'ll  ne'er  see  land  again. 

6. 

To  be  rowed  up  a  great  salt  sea, 

Beats  rowing  up  Salt  River — 
And  where  we'd  strike  a  snag  and  land, 

Why,  you'd  be  gone  forever ! 
We  go  ahead  so  steadily, 

And  never  give  a  lurch, 
Ye'd  take  us  for  a  hide-bound  chap   v 

A-hurrying  to  church. 

7. 
But  though  we  puff  as  stately,  boys, 

As  any  Dutchman  smokes, 
We  eat  the  best,  and  drink  the  best, 

And  crack  the  best  of  jokes. 
Why,  mariners,  ye're  months  away, 

On  hard  junk  beef  ye  feed, 
While  we  have  turkey,  toast,  and  tea, 

And  every  thing  we  need  ! 


THE     BEECHEN     TREE.  77 

.  8 
In  every  port,  ye  boast  there's  one 

To  spend  the  cash  ye  give  her ; 
Why,  we  have  sweethearts,  mariners, 

On  both  sides  of  the  river  ! 
We  ask  not  for  the  starry  lights, 

To  cheer  us  on  our  way ; 
We've  eyes  that  flash  from  every  wood 

The  clearest  kind  of  ray ! 

9. 

There's  Sal,  she  peeps  from  Cypress-swamp, 

And  Bet  from  Buckeye-Beach ; 
And  we've  a  passing  word  for  both, 

And  a  sly  kiss  for  each. 
I'm  told  you  say,  'cause  boilers  burst, 

Uncertain  is  our  breath ; 
To  die  by  bursted  boilers,  boys, 

Is  just  our  nat'ral  death ! 

10. 

And  don't  ye  die  in  calm  and  storm, 

And  don't  ye  die  in  slaughter  ? 
And  don't  they  wrap  you  in  a  sheet, 

And  chuck  you  in  the  water  ? 


78  THEBEECHENTREE. 

You're  food  for  fishes,  mariners  ! 

Ha  !  ha  !  your  faces  fall ! 
Well,  here's  a  health,  my  boys,  to  each, 

And  a  long  life  to  all. 

11.* 

Broad,  broad  lands  are  between  us,  boys, 

But  our  rivers  seek  the  sea — 
And  by  them,  in  our  merriment, 

We  send  good  luck  to  ye  : 
Good  luck  to  ye,  brave  mariners  ! 

And  mind,  my  boys,  whenever 
Ye  weary  of  your  ocean  life, 

Ye're  welcome  on  the  river. 

XIII. 

Gay  bounding  on  Ohio's  breast, 

Most  wooingly  Joe  sought  the  nine ; 
Expecting  that  from  all  the  rest 

Of  rhymers,  he  would  take  the  shine. 
And  did  not  great  Glendower  call 

Wild  spirits  from  the  vasty  deep? 
But  did  they  burst  their  ocean  thrall, 

Or,  disregarding,  sleep  ? 
The  muses  would  have  smiled  on  Joe — 


THEBEECHENTREE.  79 

But  just  as  they  were  drawing  near, 
As  he  was  walking  to  and  fro, 

The  dinner  bell  rang  close  and  clear. 
He  started  from  his  rhyming  fit — 

Said  he  would  take  a  bite — a  snack, 

And  then,  if  they  his  rhymes  would  back, 
He'd  make  a  most  transcendent  hit ; 

But  being  miff'd,  the  muses  backed  him, 
Like  the  false  friends  of  Jack  the  wit, 

Or  Mrs.  Lead,  who,  you  know,  sacked  him. 

Thus,  as  he  took  his  hasty  ration, 

(Forgive  the  proverb's  forced  quotation,) 
The  '  biter  was  completely  bit.' 

XIV. 

Meanwhile,  with  a  delighted  eye, 
Joe  held  a  seat,  a  lady  by  ; 

Glanced  from  the  table  through  the  door, 
At  beetling  cliff,  that  rose  on  high 

Abruptly  from  the  winding  shore : 
Paused  from  a  goose's  keen  dissection, 
Attracted  her  in  that  direction, 

By  pointing  where  the  waves  were  straying, 
As  if  they  went  the  cliffs  to  meet — 
And  uttering  the  very  thought, 


50  THE     BEECHEN     TREE. 

Which,  in  his  rhymes,  he  would  have  wrought, 
He  said  they  looked  like  childhood,  playing 

At  a  huge  giant's  feet. 

The  lady  smiled — said,  "  Now,  I  know  it — 

I  always  thought  you  were  a  poet" — 

Which  Joe  receives  with  silent  smile, 

But  cultivates  a  blush  the  while  ; 

And  then,  to  show  the  holy  fire 
Had  condescendingly  descended, 

And  flickered  once  upon  his  lyre ; 

The  following  lines,  which  he'd  intended 

For  a  fair  "  Peri  of  the  West," 

He  read  at  that  sweet  girl's  request : 

LINES. 
1. 

Lady,  when  I  became  a  wanderer, 

I  laid  my  feelings  in  the  cold  dark  urn ; 
Made  of  my  heart  its  passion's  sepulchre, 

And  said,  the  dim  sepulchral  flame  should  burn 
But  for  the  dead,  who  could  not  be  estranged, — 
O'er  memory's  treasures,  that  could  not  be  changed, — 
That  love  should  come,  but  as  a  mourning  friend, 
Who  sadly  seeks  the  tomb,  o'er  some  loved  form  to  bend. 


THE     BEECHEN     TREE. 


81 


2. 
That  form  was  the  creation  of  my  mind, 

Which  I  had  dreamed  of,  but  not  realized — 
The  bright  original  I  could  not  find, 

And  therefore  was  the  picture  the  more  prized : 
Sometimes  I  thought  to  meet  her — then,  perchance, 
Cold  reason  told  me  it  was  but  romance  ; 
A  hope,  to  which  the  love-fraught  mind  gives  birth, 
When,  from  its  dreams  of  heaven,  it  moulds  a  form  of  earth. 

3. 

Even  as  the  sculptor,*  who  of  old  displayed 

The  various  beauties  that  bewitched  his  eye, 
Till  from  the  whole  a  glorious  form  he  made, 

And  realized  his  passionate  phantasy — 
And  then  became  a  worshipper  :  I  took 
From  many  a  dream,  and  many  a  poet's  book, 
And  many  a  form  that  lived  upon  my  sight, 
That  fairy  love  of  mine,  and  made  her  my  delight. 

4. 

And  should  we  meet,  within  the  glittering  throng, 
The  being  that  our  fond  hope  burned  to  prove ; 

The  cynosure  of  beauty  and  of  song, 

Do  we  not  feel,  at  first  sight,  years  of  love  ? 

*  Pygmalion. 
4* 


82  THEBEECHENTREE. 

The  form  that  on  our  dreaming  fancy  beamed, 

Comes  to  us  waking,  even  as  we  dreamed — 

As  instantaneous  as  fair  Venus  came, 

With  lips  to  speak  of  love,  and  eye  to  light  its  flame. 

5. 

O  !  lady,  lady,  I  have  often  mourned 

For  that  bright  being,  as  for  one  no  more  ; 
But  when  I  saw  thee,  the  dear  dream  returned, 

Till  with  my  early  love  my  heart  ran  o'er. 
The  sculptor  wooed  his  marble  form  in  vain, 
Until  the  Gods  took  pity  on  his  pain  : 
But  thou,  belov'd  one,  with  the  gentle  breast, 
Sure,  in  thy  panting  heart,  young  love  might  be  a  guest. 

XV. 

In  the  brag  city  of  the  West,3 

A  month  or  two  our  hero  stayed, 

With  his  attorneyship  displayed  ; 
And  did,  I  ween,  his  very  best, 

In  gay  boudoir,  and  buckeye  shade. 
An  anti-Hebrew,  who  had  got 

A  million,  by  the  death  of  swine, 
And  speculations,  and  what  not, 

Oft  pressed  him,  warmly,  home  to  dine, 
And  gave  him  parties,  where  his  daughter, 


THEBEECHENTREE  83 

In  great  Burke's  "  swinish  multitude," 
Did  quite  as  many  deeds  of  slaughter 

As,  in  the  real  one,  father  could. 
'Tis  strange,  the  more  swine  father  slew, 
The  more  of  beaux  the  daughter  drew  ! 

XVI. 

-  Just  as  Joe  reconciled  his  heart 
To  save  his  bacon,  and  to  take 
A  pork-house,  for  the  maiden's  sake ; 
An  invitation,  on  the  part 

Of  the  fair  lady's  parents,  came, 
In  the  full  force  of  their  joint  name, 

Inviting  him,  three  days  from  thence, 
To  spend  with  them  a  gladsome  eve. 
As  the  stiff  lackey  took  his  leave, 

Joe  called  him  back  on  some  pretence, 
And  learned  that  on  that  very  night, 
A  bride  would  be  his  lady  bright ! 

XVII. 

Darkly  Joe  rose  and  took  his  way 

To  the  post-office,  for  he  thought, 
Or  rather  hoped — (the  truth  to  say) — 

That  some  good  news  the  mail  had  brought. 


84  THEBEECHENTREE. 

'Twas  natural ! — for  when  one  quarter 
Throws  o'er  our  projects  coldest  water  ; 
We  turn  our  castle-building  schemes 
To  spots  where  something  like  the  beams 
Of  star-light  through  the  cold  rain  gleams. 

XVIII. 

They  gave  a  letter  to  his  call — 
From  Dobbin  'twas,  his  friend  o'er  all : 
He  spoke  of  friendship  at  great  length, 
And  said,  theirs  was  of  Roman  strength ; 
Gave  long  accounts  of  mutual  friends, 
And  of  their  private  views  and  ends : 
And  made,  by  way  of  postscript,  mention, 
That  after  Joe  forsook  intention 
Of  making  Helen,  Mrs.  King, 
He  thought  himself  could  do  the  thing, 
And  made  accepted  offering : 
"  Hope  you  don't  think  your  roost  I'm  robbing  ? 
Your  friend,  forever,  Henry  Dobbin." 
As  some  one  after  this  was  cleaning 
The  office  occupied  by  Joe, — 
Who  farther  west  went  months  ago, — 
These  stanzas,  of  an  easy  meaning, 
Were  found  upon  his  office  floor, 
Amidst  the  rubbish,  near  the  door. 


THE     BEECHEN     TREE. 

STANZAS  TO  HELEN. 

1. 
Lady,  thou  art  changed  indeed — 

I  may  not  love  thee  now — 
But  view  thee  as  an  idle  creed, 

Unworthy  of  a  vow. 
Yet  once  thy  love  was  all  to  me, 
It  was  a  courted  destiny — 

Such  as  his  day-dreams  show 
To  the  fondly  trusting  boy, 
Whose  fancy  is  as  full  of  joy 

As  earth  is  full  of  woe. 

2. 
I  woo'd  thy  love,  as  prophets  woo 

The  hour  they've  promised  long ; 
Whose  happy  scenes  should  all  be  true, 

And  fairy-like  as  song. 
How  very  vain  the  phantasy, 
Of  those  who  hope  and  hope  for  aye, 

Fond  trusters  to  the  last — 
Who,  like  the  Summer's  insect  thing, 

Sport  carelessly  on  sunlit  wing, 
Till  comes  the  chilling  blast ! 


85 


86 


THE     BEECHEN     TREE 

3. 

And  then  it  dies,  as  my  hope  dies ! 

No !  never  to  relume — 
Devoted  as  it  highest  flies 

To  an  untimely  tomb. 
How  often  in  the  moonlight  grove, 
When  we  have  pledged  our  mutual  love, 

You've  pointed  to  the  star, 
And  spoke  of  your  unchanging  soul — 
The  needle's  truth,  and  of  the  pole — 

And  of  the  mariner  ! 


4. 

This  is  love's  frailest  common-place, 

And  written  oft  as  spoken ; 
It  is  the  lover's  word  of  grace, 

Before  his  vows  are  broken  : 
Yet  you — you  spoke  with  such  a  look, 
That  truth,  as  in  the  Sybil's  book, 

Seemed  clothed  in  every  word  : 
And  I — I  listened  and  believed  ! 
And  who  may  not  be  thus  deceived 

Who  feels  it  as  he  heard  ? 


THEBEECHENTREE.  87 

5. 

Thou  queen  of  the  voluptuous  throng, 

Where  pleasure  holds  her  reign  ; — 
No  more  I  hear  thy  siren  song, 

Or  court  thy  proffered  chain ; 
No  more  the  meeting  hour  of  gladness, 
No  more  the  parting  hour  of  sadness, 

Shall  light  or  cloud  my  brow ; 
You  broke  the  vow  I  loved  the  best ! 
I  feel  I  have  the  power  to  jest 

With  any  other  vow. 


6. 

They're  like  thee,  in  this  Western  land, 

As  lovely  as  thou  art; 
But  then,  they  have  a  warmer  hand, 

And  wear  a  truer  heart. 
T  may  not  kneel  at  any  shrine, 
So  soon  since  I  arose  from  thine, 

I  might  mistake  the  maid ; 
And  yet,  O  !  for  the  early  dream, 
Of  her  I  left  o'er  hill  and  stream 

I'd  be  again  betrayed  ! 


THE     BEECHEN     TREE. 

7. 
Betrayed !     No,  not  betrayed  by  thee  ! 

'Twas  manhood's  sober  thought 
That  proved  the  cold  reality 

My  boyish  fancy  wrought 
To  every  virtue,  every  bliss. 
Yet  who,  for  such  a  dream  as  this — 
Who  would  not  be  a  boy, 
With  woman  for  his  fairy  queen, 
And  earth  as  one  bright  gorgeous  scene, 

A  fairy  land  of  joy  ? 


8. 
Yet  ofttimes,  when  I  sorrowing  pine 

For  those  I've  left  behind  me — 
The  friends  who  bound  their  hearts  with  mine, 
And  ever  thus  shall  bind  me — 
As  oft  as  I  recall  the  hours 
When  law  was  left  for  lady  bowers, 

And  reason  left  for  rhyme — 
I  think  of  those  who  round  thee  hung, 
The  love-note  of  thy  syren  tongue, 

And  of  our  trysting  time. 


THE     BEECHEN     TREE. 

9. 

And  when  I  clasp  a  friend's  warm  hand, 

Who,  like  me,  loves  the  West ; 
Leaving  afar  our  father  land, 

Where  thou  art  loveliest  ; 
'Tis  sweet  with  him  to  talk  of  thee, 
Thy  smile,  thy  look,  thy  witchery, 

Thy  beauty,  and  thy  art ; 
And  when  I  hear  it  all,  unmoved, 
I  wonder  if  I  ever  loved, 

So  very  calm's  my  heart. 


10. 

I'm  from  thee  many  a  weary  mile, 

Where  rolls  La  Belle  along* — 
I  love  its  ripple's  song  and  smile — 

'Tis  like  thy  smile  and  song. 
So  truly  it  reflects  the  scene, 
The  sunny  ray,  the  changing  green, 

The  clear  o'erhanging  heaven ; 
So  truly,  when  I've  looked  on  thee, 
Thou  gav'st  each  love-look  back  to  me, 

'Till  I  have  thought  love  given. 


90 


THE     BEECHEN     TREE. 
11. 

O  Lady  !  in  this  changing  world, 
Wild  passions  strange  and  strong, 
On  bear  us  like  a  leaf,  wind-whirled, 

With  varying  fate  along  [ 

But  yester-eve,  this  bounding  river 
Wore  holy  calm,  as  if  forever  ; 

Now  rolls  it  darkly  free ; 
Thus  I,  who  bid  my  heart  be  still, 
Now  feel  it  bursting,  'gainst  my  will, 

As  wildly  unto  thee  ! 


12. 

Alas !  I  am  a  wanderer 

From  those  who  love  me  best — 
Who,  when  it  was  my  lot  to  err, 

Relieved  an  aching  breast : 
From  friends  who  loved  my  lowly  name, 
And  never  heard  the  word  of  blame, 

But  to  defend  their  friend  ; 
And  here,  o'er  mountain  and  o'er  flood, 
I  pour  to  them  my  gratitude — 

'Tis  all  I  have  to  send. 


THEBEECHENTREE.  91 

13. 

O !  that  I  could  my  dark  thoughts  cast 

Upon  thee,  lovely  river ; 
And  know,  as  on  thy  bright  waves  passed, 

They'd  pass  with  them  forever ! 
Lady,  we  yet  may  meet  again, 
When  memory  shall  no  longer  pain, 

And  love  no  longer  sigh  ! 
No  more,  no  more,  may  I  adore  thee ! 
Enough  !  the  world  is  all  before  me ! 

My  lady-love,  good  bye ! 


THE    END. 


NOTES. 


CANTO  I. 

1  Like  Hudibras  he  felt  expand 

His  heart,  as  Cupid  took  "  his  stand 
Upon  the  widow's  jointure  land." — p.  14. 

"  But  all  in  vain :  he'd  got  a  hurt 
O*  th*  inside  of  a  deadlier  sort, 
By  Cupid  made,  who  took  his  stand 
Upon  a  widow's  jointure  land !" 

Hudibras,  Canto  3,  part  1,  line  309. 

2  And  lean,  like  Lara,  'gainst  the  wall. — p,  18. 

"  He  leaned  against  the  lofty  pillar  nigh, 
With  folded  arms  and  long  attentive  eye." 

Lara  xxi.  line  4. 

Mr.  McMyer  chose  the  wall,  perhaps,  because  there  was  no  pillar  near 
by. 

CANTO  II. 

1  Saying,  that  "  declarations  made 
By  dying  man  'neath  mortal  blow, 


94  NOTES. 

Could  be  with  all  their  force  arrayed 
'Gainst  his  indicted  foe. — p.  31. 
See  Starkie  on  Evidence,  Vol.  I.  p.  28,  Vol.  II.  p.  262. 

I  have  heard  the  events  of  this  canto  related  as  facts ;  but  whether  the 
narrator,  who  was  a  great  story-teller,  stuck  to  truth,  or  borrowed  from  the 
original  Joe  Miller,  I  cannot  say. 

3  I'd  make  him  think  an  Indian  band, 
With  rods  in  every  brawny  hand, 
Was  pressing  hard  behind  him  ; 
And  never  council-house  should  spread 
Its  safety  o'er  his  suffering  back. — p.  39. 

In  running  the  gauntlet  among  the  Indians,  it  was  generally  the  cus 
tom  to  compel  the  prisoner  to  run  between  two  files  of  men,  women,  and 
children,  placed  promiscuously,  with  the  council-house  before  him,  which, 
if  he  was  able  to  reach  amidst  the  shower  of  blows  that  were  aimed  at 
him,  his  life  was  spared. 

I  remember  to  have  heard  Simon  Kenton,  a  celebrated  old  pioneer 
of  the  West,  give  a  graphic  account  of  his  running  the  gauntlet  in  this 
way. 

CANTO  III. 
1  "  Go  it,  old  fellow,"  said  the  Kemble, 

Addressing  this  same  Father  Time. — p.  52. 

"  Saturday,  December  1st,  1832. 

First  day  of  the  last  month  of  the  year — go  it,  old  fellow." 

Frances  Ann  Butler's  Journal,  Vol.  II.  p.  1. 


NOTES.  95 

CANTO  IV. 

1  Joe  thought  of  him,  a  madcap  wight, 
Who  from  a  bedlam  broke  away. — p.  70. 

I  have  seen  this  little  incident  related  of  a  madman,  somewhere,  as  a 
fact,  but  I  have  taxed  my  memory  in  vain  to  remember  where. 

8  The  Indian  and  the  bounding  deer, 
The  forest-roving  pioneer,  &c. — p.  72. 

The  scene  of  Braddock's  defeat  is  about  eight  miles  from  Pittsburg, 
near  Turtle  Creek.  It  was  there,  as  our  readers  know,  Washington  first 
displayed  his  great  military  talents. 

3  In  the  brag  city  of  the  West. — p.  82. 

Cincinnati,  as  is  well  known,  is  called  the  "  Queen  of  the  West,"  and 
so  she  certainly  is,  if  beauty  designates  the  queen.  In  wealth  and  power 
St.  Louis,  it  is  thought,  will  ere  long  more  than  rival  her.  Cincinnati  is, 
however,  one  of  the  most  beautiful  cities  in  the  Union,  if  not  the  most 
beautiful.  Her  fame  for  her  pork  and  her  poetry  (?),  her  arts  and  her 
artisans,  is  spreading  fast. 

4  I'm  from  thee  many  a  weary  mile, 
Where  rolls  La  Belle  along. — p.  89. 

La  belle  Emigre. — The  Ohio  was  so  called  by  the  French  voyagers. 


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